


It is Simplicity in Itself

by Ani



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crack, M/M, Meta, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-06
Updated: 2011-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-24 08:45:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ani/pseuds/Ani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He flipped it over. “It just says “sex pollen”. What the hell could that be?”</p><p>“Oh,” Sherlock gasped, faintly. His finger slid from his mouth with an obscene pop, and he looked up at John, pupils blown wide. “<i>Oh.</i>”</p>
            </blockquote>





	It is Simplicity in Itself

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very silly fill for a prompt for a sex pollen story. It's cracky, meta, and somehow porn-without-plot-without-porn and my only excuse is extreme boredom at work. (It's also my first fill, and I've never so much as a read a sex pollen story before, so I apologize if I've gotten anything wrong. Including how literal that pollen is supposed to be.)

“Bill, bill, advert, overdue bill, advert that will become a bill if I let you see it... and this box.” John shook it and heard a soft rustle, like sand, or flour. “I don’t recognize the return address. Is it is safe?”

“Mycroft checks our mail.”

“Yes. Yes, of course he does, why would I even ask?” He handed the cardboard package to Sherlock’s lazily out-stretched hand and sat in his chair to open the rest. “It’s addressed to both of us, from “The Shippers”. Do you know who that is?”

“A yacht club, perhaps. Or post enthusiasts.” Sherlock ripped the tape off in one stroke and folded open the top to reveal a loose, dusty pile of yellow fluff. “Hmm. Interesting. Dandelion pollen, or mustard seed? Too light for turmeric.” He gave it a sniff and then trailed his finger through the powder, touching it to the tip of his tongue.

“Oh! There’s a card.” John got up to retrieve the lost billet from where it’d slid under the coffee table, purposefully ignoring Sherlock, who was undoubtedly aiming one of his most (deserved) withering glares. “There’s a heart.” He flipped it over. “It just says “sex pollen”. What the hell could that be?”

“Oh,” Sherlock gasped, faintly. His finger slid from his mouth with an obscene pop, and he looked up at John, pupils blown wide. " _Oh_."

“Sherlock, are you okay? What-”

“John,” Sherlock begged, in his deep dark Voice, “Come here. Now.”

He grabbed the box away from him, concerned, and saw the powder bloom into the air, swirling through the sunbeams. That was when John suddenly felt dazed, and decided to sit down next to Sherlock. Close. Very close.

“John,” Sherlock said again, and laid his fingertips against John’s mouth, ever so lightly. John could taste it, whatever it was, brushing his tongue, wine-bitter but spring-sweet. He felt a heat sweep through him, boiling deep in his body and then - an unnameable, unmistakable ache.

“Oh,” he whispered.

" _Yes_." That voice, growling in his ear; he shuddered and closed his eyes.

" _Sherlock._ "

 

 

 

Mycroft arrived with his personal medical team seven hours and forty-three minutes later - two hours more than he’d thought they could possibly survive, let alone _require_ ,  but that would teach him to underestimate the stamina and sheer bloody-mindedness of his brother and that John Watson when dedicated to a single, mutual goal.

“I hope this was all worth it, sir,” Anthea said as she surveyed the wreckage. The men had been carted off but they’d need another team just for cleaning. And...repair.

“Oh, they’ll be the much better for it,” Mycroft said jovially, investigating a kitchen chair and then deciding to just stand. “And now I have a world-wide network of clever women eternally indebted and gratefully loyal to my needs.”

“This is that favour you were talking about?” She nudged a shirt with her shoe, and then rather wish she hadn’t. It was that moment that something occurred to her. Something deeply, deeply unfortunate. “Sir, that video footage you had asked me to edit...”

“Part of the arrangement.” He smiled at her. It was his “I am about to tell you something you don’t want to hear” smile. “There are fifteen cameras. We just need to collect the pertinent bits. Why, I bet some of them won’t even be...” he faltered, catching sight of the hallway. “It shouldn’t take long.”

“And this is my project?”

“Who else could I trust with such sensitive material, my darling Anthea?”

“But you’re not going to help.”

“It is my brother.” He cleared his throat and pointed to the riding crop on the fireplace with his umbrella. Anthea shuddered.

“Right. Of course.” She took a deep breath. “And this weekend?”

“A very lovely cruise to a very private island.”

“With a bartender.”

“Done.”

“Right, then, I’ll just-”

“Sir!” The front door slammed open and a paramedic burst through, panting. “Mr. Holmes sir, the ambulance, your brother and him...”

“Ah. Yes. We’ll get the CCTV footage too, then.”

And that was Anthea’s day.

  
  



End file.
